


A Night for Mystery and Horror

by Wife_of_Bath



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Attend the Tale of Sweeney Todd, But not Hickey's fault for once, Cannibalism, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion Of Murder, Folk Tales, Ghost Ships, Ghost Stories, Halloween, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Some spoilers for Infamy's storyline, Storytelling, Urban Legends, Was this just an excuse for the boys to talk about Victorian urban legends?, allusions to incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wife_of_Bath/pseuds/Wife_of_Bath
Summary: On All Hallows' Eve, the officers ofErebusandTerrorgather to tell tales of the eerie and the uncanny.Written for Halloween Terrorfest Day 13: This is Halloween





	A Night for Mystery and Horror

The storm arose scarce minutes after Captain Fitzjames and Lieutenant Le Vesconte arrived on _Terror_. Inside the oak walls of the ship, the officers listened to the barrage of hail and the roar of the thunder that rivaled the creaks and groans of the ice that ensconced them. They tried to drown out the noise with their conversation, all except Captain Crozier, who was customarily silent. A loud crack of thunder rattled their teeth and clattered the dishes. None of the men would ever admit to being wary of a thunderstorm, but perhaps it was their situation, stuck in the icy expanse with the Creature lurking at their doorstep, that made them all a bit uneasy. 

“I read that it was a night like this that Mary Shelley got the idea for Frankenstein,” Fitzjames spoke up, hoping to ease the mood somewhat. “She and her friends were in a villa in Switzerland, and they had the idea to tell each other ghost stories. That night she had a dream and penned her novel.” He took a sip of Allsopp’s. “To think a girl of eighteen could invent that.”

“I’m not sure if it is so surprising,” Lieutenant Hodgson replied, “considering the company she kept.”

“I doubt her company had much to do with it, Lieutenant,” Mr. Blanky said. “The scenarios my daughters have invented playing with their dolls would curl your hair.” 

“Today is October 31st, is it not?” Fitzjames asked.

“All Hallows' Eve,” Lieutenant Irving replied. “The night according to old pagan beliefs that the veil between our world and the next is thinnest.” He turned to Crozier. “Am I right, Captain?”

Crozier had no idea why Irving would look to him for the correct answer, unless he thought the captain might have some special insight due to his Irish heritage. “You are, John.”

“The night when the veil is thinnest,” Fitzjames repeated. “I would expect every man here has a tale or two that would make the likes of Lord Byron shiver. Dundy, do you remember that story we heard about the Japanese mother?”

“Very well.”

“James, if you tell this story, we shall be here all night,” Crozier said.

Fitzjames leaned back in his chair, disappointed his moment had been cut short. He had wanted to give a proper rendition of the tale with hushed voices and dramatic pauses, but he trusted Le Vesconte to do it justice. “Then I hand the baton to Dundy.”

Le Vesconte took a deep breath. “I may need your assistance, James. We heard this story while we were stationed in China. There was a young woman whose soldier lover had died and left her with a babe inside. She was betrothed to someone else, and when he found out her condition on their wedding night, he threw her out of the house. She had her baby, but alone and on the streets, she could not care for the boy, so she left him with her sister’s family and threw herself into the river. But she missed her baby.” He glanced surreptitiously at Fitzjames. “She wanted him back, even as he grew up and had children of his own. Her loneliness drove her so mad that she began haunting his family, not just getting revenge on those who hurt her but also the ones who had tried to help her.”

“She would possess them,” Fitzjames added in a low voice, “and made them do dreadful things before killing them.”

“What did her son’s family do?” Hodgson asked, his glass hovering a few inches from his lips as he listened eagerly.

“They were able to use some sort of incantation to remind her of herself,” Le Vesconte replied. “She was able to go back to the afterlife and left her family in peace.”

“At least it had a happy ending,” Lieutenant Little spoke up. “So many tales of ghosts end grimly.”

“It’s a grim subject,” Blanky agreed. “I’ve heard a story or two.” In his many years as a sailor, he had seen and heard of things that would make men afraid to look over their shoulders for fear of what they would find. “There’s the _Flying Dutchman_, that’s a famous one, but the one that made me stay up at night was that of _Young Teazer_. It was an American privateer. Her own crew blew her up when she was cornered by an English warship. Most of the crew died. They say that on the anniversary of the night she was destroyed, she can be seen off the coast of Nova Scotia sailing and burning with its crew still up in the rigging.”

“I’ve never had much care for ghost stories,” Irving admitted. “Our souls depart this world when we die. We do not linger.” He paused, taking a sip of his drink. “However, I have a story that could keep a man up at night. No ghosts here. It was the sixteenth century, during King James’s reign. There was a famine in Edinburgh. No food, a drought, and plague in the streets. Sawney Bean, a man who never amounted to anything, took his witch wife Black Agnes, and they went into the caves outside the city. There they preyed on any unwary travelers, with always an eye for the wealthy ones with a good, heavy purse.” As Irving talked, his eyes took on an excited glint, and his Scottish brogue began slipping through his words. “But they didn’t throw away the bodies. They kept them, and ate them up, and pickled what was left over. They grew fat on the corpses of others for years, until their children grew up. But they were so isolated, that their children lay with each other and begat more of that clan. Finally, the disappearances grew too numerous, and the mobs strung up Sawney Bean and his sons without trial and burned his wife and daughters. And at his death, Bean cried, ‘It isn’t over. It will never be over.’ It’s said that only one daughter escaped, and anyone unlucky enough to trace his lineage to her will be cursed with unending hunger.”

The other officers fell silent, surprised to hear such a twisted story from the staunchly pious lieutenant. Dr. McDonald cleared his throat. “I dare say our corner of the world has had its fair share of nefarious individuals. Deacon Brodie. Burke and Hare, although I would recommend not mentioning them to our Dr. Goodsir, as I heard from Dr. Stanley that he studied under Dr. Knox. After the case,” he quickly added. He turned to Irving. “Did you ever hear about the miniature coffins?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Miniature coffins?” Fitzjames asked. “Like for children?”

“Smaller, in fact. More like for dolls. In fact there were dolls inside them. Around ten years ago, some boys discovered them near Arthur’s Seat. There were seventeen of them with carved faces and wrapped in cotton cloth.”

“Whatever were they for?” Hodgson asked.

“No one knows. Some think it may be related to some sort of witchcraft practice. Edinburgh has had its fair share of witches through the centuries, and they were quite old.”

“How eerie,” Hodgson said. “John, your tale reminds me of a similar one I heard the last time I was in London. It was actually not long before we sailed, and it was certainly a reminder to think about one’s food. Several years ago, there was a pie shop on Fleet Street. From the outside of it, it was nothing remarkable, although it was neat enough and run by a respectable widow. She made the most delicious pies, and people high and low would line up for hours just to get one of her pastries. But what they didn’t know was that the barber above her shop, a criminal escaped from Australia, was taking his revenge on the world that he believed had wronged him. He sliced their throats and sent the bodies down to her to make into mincemeat. Even with the horrible smells coming out of her chimney, no one suspected a thing until they had a terrific row and he threw her into the oven.” He shook his head. “It just goes to show you never quite know what you’re eating.” An awkward moment passed over the table as the men glanced at their empty plates.

“What about you, Francis?” Fitzjames spoke up, not wanting to think too much about Goldner’s tinned goods. “Surely you have a story to share with us.”

Briefly, Crozier thought of brushing off Fitzjames’s request. He could think of nothing, at least nothing he would want to tell the men. Not the wailing Banshee or the Morrigan with her crows and bloody mouth. He thought of carving turnips with his sisters and setting a lit candle inside to ward off any unfriendly spirits. Even in the Crozier household, they observed the old traditions. “I suppose I have one,” he said with a small smile. “There once was a man, a stingy, mean old miser by the name of Jack.”

“Was he an antisocial recluse?” Fitzjames interjected with a teasing grin. Crozier had half a mind to stop right there, but he did not want to give Fitzjames the pleasure.

“You might say that. He was so rotten that the Devil came up to see him. But Jack thought himself clever, so he made a deal. He raced the Devil up an apple tree, but when the Devil was distracted, he climbed down and drew a circle of crosses around the trunk. Trapped, the Devil agreed that he would never take Jack’s soul to hell. But when Jack died, he was so bad that Heaven would not take him either. So he must wander the earth forever with a lantern made out of a turnip.”

“It just goes to show,” Fitzjames said, “when making a deal, always read the fine print.”

Later that night, as the storm subsided, Edward Little lay in his bunk. He flipped through his collection of poetry, but he found it difficult to concentrate on the words. A soft knock interrupted his thoughts, and he rose just as Jopson slid open the door. He glanced around before stepping into Little’s cabin, closing the door behind him. Grateful to put his book away, Little stretched out his arms and pulled Jopson into a tight embrace.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Jopson asked.

“Not really, no,” he admitted. He had never thought himself one to spook easily, but something about the evening’s conversation with the innocuous tales of burning ships, hunger for human flesh, and restless souls unsettled him.

“You were silent during dinner. No stories to tell?”

“No. Not even a creaking door in my house.” He moved so he and Jopson could stretch out together on the bunk. “What about you, Thomas?”

A shadow passed over Jopson’s features. What stories could the steward tell that could possibly match the memory of his mother’s unseeing eyes and her hysterical laughter that still plagued his dreams at night? “None,” he said.

“It’s strange, all through dinner, I kept thinking, will we be like that one day? Are we going to be a story people will tell around the fire to frighten each other?”

“Hush,” Jopson soothed, placing his fingers on Little’s lips. “I expect we will be stories one day, but not like that. We will make our own story.”

Pulling him closer, Little buried his face in Jopson’s hair. No matter what happened, they would find each other. Even if he died, he would eschew Heaven and walk the earth as a ghost to stay by Jopson’s side. Even if it were just for one night, just on All Hallows' Eve when the veil was thinnest, they would be together. His hand found Jopson’s, their fingers entwining. He felt Jopson’s warm breath against his skin and his heart beating against his chest. Little’s eyes drifted closed. They were alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I pulled in Yuko's story from _Infamy_ for James and Dundy's tale.
> 
> The Young Teazer: https://seeksghosts.blogspot.com/2012/12/ghost-ship-young-teazer.html
> 
> The Legend of Sawney Bean (warning for cannibalism and incest): https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofScotland/Sawney-Bean-Scotlands-most-famous-cannibal/
> 
> Edinburgh's miniature coffins. They are definitely eerie looking, although the current popular theory is rather nice: https://www.nms.ac.uk/explore-our-collections/stories/scottish-history-and-archaeology/mystery-of-the-miniature-coffins/
> 
> Sweeney Todd needs no introduction, although I did take a few liberties with the chronology. _A String of Pearls_, the earliest version of the legend, was not published until 1846, but there had long been rumors about dubious pies.
> 
> There are many versions of the legend of Jack O'Lantern, but I used the Stingy Jack version for Crozier's tale.
> 
> Happy Halloween Terrors!


End file.
